


Riverdale's Longest Night

by Goldy



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 4 AU, Zombie Apocalypse, ambiguous ending, bughead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: “Remember that time I made you watch Romero’s Night of the Living Dead?”He sees the realization dawn in her eyes before she hurriedly shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No way. That’s impossible. Jug, there is no such thing as zombies.”Season 4 Zombie Apocalypse AU. The Core Four are celebrating graduation at La Bonne Nuit when everything changes.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Veronica Lodge, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 22
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I have always wanted to write a Zombie Apocalypse fic and something about Riverdale lends itself so well to that setting. I hope this is scary and a little sad and hopefully also a little funny. Bughead-focused. Please note the warnings (it _is_ a zombie fic!).
> 
> My eternal thanks to arsenicpanda for the beta job and suggestions!

The screaming starts the same time as Veronica pops the champagne cork.

Jughead’s first thought is that something went wrong with the champagne bottle. His brain must be confusing the sounds of panicked screaming with shattered glass. His next thought is to dismiss that theory as absurd. After all, this is _Veronica Lodge._ Hermione probably taught her daughter how to pop the cork on champagne bottles from inside the womb.

His third thought is, well, the bottle is open now, and nothing is broken, and he is _still hearing screams_ so it _definitely_ is not a broken champagne bottle, and maybe one of them should do something about it?

Finally, Archie raises a hand towards the ceiling and says, “Are you guys hearing that?”

Jughead manages to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Oh, you mean the bloodcurdling screams from _Nightmare on Elm Street_ that will keep me from sleeping tonight and every night until I die? Yeah, Archie, I can hear them.”

He thinks it is a testament to just how much shit they have seen and dealt with over their last few years that none of them are panicking. Veronica very carefully, almost reverently, sets the champagne bottle back on the bar next to the four crystal champagne flutes she had arranged for them as if the screaming is no more than a mere blip in their evening.

But when she turns back to them, her face is grim. “You guys, half our graduating class is up there.”

It is true. Most of their classmates opted to celebrate their last day of high school with a milkshake and burger at Pop’s. Veronica’s best friends, though? Well, they had been told in no uncertain terms to put on their very best formal wear, come to La Bonne Nuit, where they would celebrate in _style._ So far, that had seemed to mean champagne and the smallest appetizers Jughead has ever seen in his life, most of which seem to involve smoked fish and shrimp. Smoked fish, he feels, is a disappointing excuse for a food.

Frankly, he would have been happier with a cheeseburger and milkshake and an early night back at home with Betty, but Veronica had _insisted_ and Betty had _looked at him_ and, before he knew it, he was wearing his best suit (okay, his only suit) and eating canapés with his fingers while his stomach rumbled.

He had been hoping that Veronica and Archie would soon become distracted by investigating each other’s formal wear and he could grab Betty and beat a hasty retreat upstairs to a meal of burger and fries. So far, no luck, as Veronica seemed intent on making their last day as high schoolers “ _meaningful._ ”

He has a feeling that the screams emanating from upstairs make the chances of getting his burger tonight unlikely.

“It’s probably just somebody’s idea of a senior prank,” Veronica continues. She glances accusingly in Archie’s direction.

Archie raises his hands defensively. “If it is, I had nothing to do with it this time.”

Jughead turns to Betty because surely if anyone would have an explanation for the strange phenomenon going on above them, it would be Betty, but the space where his girlfriend had been occupying only moments before is now empty. The gnawing panic that hits him is not entirely unwarranted in the circumstances. There are hair-raising screams coming from upstairs, and this is _Riverdale_ , and his girlfriend who had been at his side all evening is suddenly _gone_.

“Betty?” he calls. If his voice is high-pitched with panic, neither Veronica or Archie comment on it. He turns in a wide circle and finally spies her about halfway up the stairs towards the door that leads to Pop’s.

He takes off after her fast enough that his beanie slips backwards on his head and he has to hold onto it to keep it from falling. Veronica and Archie trail close behind him at his heels.

It is Veronica’s voice that yells out, “B, what are you doing? You can’t go up there!”

For once, Jughead is in full agreement with Veronica.

Betty pauses on the stairs and then turns around to face them. “V, those are our classmates. We have to help them.”

“We will,” cries Veronica. “By calling 911. Betty, we have no idea what’s going on up there. We can’t help anyone by walking into a trap.”

Again, Jughead finds himself agreeing. He uses Betty’s momentary distraction to charge the rest of the way up the stairs until he reaches her. He places a hand on her shoulder and immediately feels better. Now she can’t disappear on him quite so easily.

She looks over at him, her eyes wide and pleading. “Jug,” she says, “we have to help them.”

“I know,” he says. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her in close. “But Veronica’s right. We need to let the authorities deal with this.”

He looks back at Veronica, expecting to see her on the phone with the sheriff’s office, but instead she’s looking down at her cell with a puzzled expression on her face. “There’s no service,” she says. “Not even for 911.”

“What?” says Archie. He pulls out his own phone, and the same puzzled expression quickly falls across his face. “Mine too. Guys?”

With some reluctance, Jughead releases Betty so they can both dig out their phones. His stomach sinks when he sees “ _no service_ ” at the top of his phone. From the grave look on Betty’s face, he assumes her phone must say the same.

From upstairs, there is another piercing scream. The scream is deeper, animalistic, almost… inhuman.

Jughead lowers his phone and glances back at his friends. Archie has a hand on Veronica’s back and a pinched, determined look on his face. Jughead has seen that expression on his best friend’s face before. Usually right before Archie does something very brave, but very stupid.

“Guys,” he says slowly, “I have to go up there.”

“What?” says Veronica. She turns to give Archie a betrayed look. “You did hear that scream, right? I don’t care how many boxing matches you’ve won, you can’t go out there on your own.”

Archie carefully disentangles himself from Veronica and then unbuttons his cufflinks. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and folds it over one arm. “That’s why it has to be me,” he says calmly. “Chances are, this is just a stupid prank that Reggie and the other guys have cooked up to scare us. They probably just want to take a picture of the look on my face when I go up there. But if I’m wrong…”

“If you’re wrong then it could be your screams we’ll be hearing next!” says Veronica.

Archie shrugs his shoulders in resignation. “Maybe. Or maybe I can handle whatever is out there. Of the four of us, I’m the only one trained in hand-to-hand combat. Besides, I fought off a bear. I can handle some Riverdale Bulldogs who have had too much to drink on graduation day.”

“Arch, those screams sound like more than a few jocks who had too much to drink,” Betty points out.

“Betty’s right,” says Veronica urgently. “You can’t go up there. Not by yourself.”

Archie’s next words are desperate. “Ronnie, I can’t worry about you and look out for myself at the same time.”

They stare at each other in a silent battle. Finally, Veronica squares her jaw. “Fine. But we are not going to cower behind the bar. We’ll be at the door. You knock three times if you want us to let you back in. Four times if you need us to come help you.”

“Deal,” says Archie. He hands Veronica his suit jacket and then his eyes land on Jughead. “Jug, I hope to god this is a prank, but if it’s not… protect Veronica, okay? Protect both of them.”

Jughead thinks it is a sign of how dire their circumstances are that neither Veronica or Betty chastise Archie for daring to suggest they need “protecting.” He reaches for Betty, his fingers brushing against her elbow, and then he nods in Archie’s direction.

Archie nods back and climbs the stairs, Betty and Jughead reluctantly moving aside to let him pass.

“Arch—” Betty begins as Archie reaches the door, but she does not seem to know what to say and almost immediately lapses back into silence.

Archie’s hand pauses over the door. He turns back to look at them with a grim smile. “I love you, Ronnie. And you guys.”

Before any of them can say anything in return, he pushes open the door and disappears, shoving the door closed behind him.

Jughead and Betty hurriedly press themselves up against the closed door, Veronica joining them. Through the door, Archie’s voice sounds muffled and distorted like it is coming from underwater.

“Hey Reg, Kevin—” comes Archie’s voice. With alarm, he says, “You’re bleeding. Hey, what happened to your face—”

Jughead does not hear what Archie says next because the screaming starts again—the animalistic screaming that does not sound like it should be coming from a human body.

Veronica’s voice is faint. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Archie. We have to help him.”

Jughead carefully plants himself between the two women and the door handle. He too would like nothing more than to burst open the door and help Archie. But he had made a promise to his best friend to protect them. And he will not do anything that puts either Betty or Veronica in danger.

A minute or two later, something heavy hits the door. The three of them jump back in surprise, and then they hear it—knocking—once, twice, three times.

“Archie!” cries Veronica.

Jughead is already moving. He unlocks the door and barely turns the doorknob before Archie flings open the door and throws himself inside. He quickly presses his weight back against the door as something thuds against it from the other side.

“Help me!” he yells.

Jughead barely has enough time to realize that his friend is pressing a hand covered in blood to his neck before he throws himself next to Archie. Together, the two of them hold the door in place as Archie shakily locks the door with his free hand.

They slowly back away. Fists pound against the door from the other side. It shudders, but holds in place.

“Archie, you’re bleeding,” says Veronica. “What happened?”

Archie’s face is pale. He slowly pulls his hand away from his neck and then blinks down at his fingers as if surprised to see them covered in blood.

“He bit me,” Archie says in a trembling voice. “Reggie bit me.”

* * *

Jughead paces back and forth while checking and rechecking his phone. Each time it says the same thing: _No signal._

Archie sits on the steps leading to the stage while Veronica fusses over him. She has found a bandage and an ice pack for his bleeding neck. His face is pasty white and a sheen of sweat lines his forehead.

Betty hovers behind them like she wants to help but does not want to get in the way.

Jughead stops his pacing in front of Archie. “Tell us again,” he says impatiently.

Archie eyes him wearily. “I saw Reggie, Kevin, Munroe…” he swallows hard, “it was _them_ , but their faces… their cheeks were sunken, their eyes yellow and bloodied. At first I thought they were just wearing masks and it was a stupid prank, but then Pop—” his voice dips, “I saw Pop behind the counter. He was holding something in both hands and eating it, absolutely tearing into it with his teeth. His mouth was covered in blood. I didn’t know it was at first, but the noises he was making… guys, it was a severed leg. He was eating someone’s severed leg.”

Heavy silence descends around them. Veronica presses the ice pack against Archie’s neck and then smooths his hair. Blood is beginning to seep through the bandage on his neck. “Shh, Archie. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything more.”

Jughead ignores her. “What happened next?” he demands. He takes no pleasure in making Archie relive the nightmare he just experienced, but he needs to know. He needs to know as much as possible if they have any hope of getting out of this.

Archie continues haltingly. “Pop looked up at me, and the _noise_ he made… I don’t know what that noise was, but it wasn’t human. He started for me, and I tried to get away. That’s when I ran into Reggie. He grabbed me from behind. He sunk his teeth into my neck like I was a chew toy. I punched him until he let me go. By then, Kevin and Munroe were on top of me, and Pop was coming… I punched them and ran. Lucky for me, they were moving real slow. I was able to fight them off until I got back to you guys.” He looks up at Veronica with a dazed expression. “They must have been on something, Ronnie. Something real bad. It’s not safe for you out there. It’s not safe for any of us.”

Jughead meets Betty’s gaze from where she is hovering over her friends. He can tell that she is thinking the same thing he is. What kind of drug would turn Pop and the rest of their friends into _cannibals_?

He nods his head in a “ _come here_ ” expression and she hops down from the stage to join him. He quickly pulls her off to the side so they can talk without Archie and Veronica overhearing.

“What is it?” she whispers.

“Bleeding from the eyes? Severed limbs? _Biting_? This is not a trip gone wrong, Betty.”

She rubs her hands nervously together and glances over at Archie and Veronica before quickly meeting his gaze again. “I know,” she says. “What do you think it is?”

He hesitates before answering. “Remember that time I made you watch Romero’s _Night of the Living Dead_?”

He sees the realization dawn in her eyes before she hurriedly shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No way. That’s impossible. Jug, there is no such thing as zombies.”

“Look at the evidence,” he hisses. “The noises we have been hearing. The screaming. The lost service on our cell phone. Pop was eating someone’s _severed leg._ Kevin and half of our friends tried to make a meal out of Archie.”

Betty is still shaking her head. “There is some rational explanation for all of this. We just need to find out what it is.”

“Maybe there is,” Jughead says, “but if I’m right then we have another five minutes before our best friend tries to make a meal out of the rest of us.”

Betty’s mouth opens in shock and he sees the realization dawn in her eyes. “No,” she says. “Jug, no.”

“I don’t like it any better than you do,” he hisses. “Maybe this is a new drug with bad side effects. Maybe it’s not zombies but some disease that turns people into cannibals. Either way, Archie has been infected. He’s not safe.”

In unison, they both look over at their friend. Archie is shivering. He pulls his arms close to his chest as Veronica drapes his suit jacket back over his shoulders. She presses a hand to his forehead, whispers something to him that they cannot hear, and then looks hopelessly over in their direction.

“He’s starting to burn up,” she says shakily. “His wound must be infected. God knows what Reggie passed on to him. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“I have a feeling hospitals are full up tonight,” says Jughead. He carefully maneuvers himself so that he is standing in front of Betty and then approaches Archie and Veronica.

He hopes to a god he does not believe in that he is wrong about this.

But if he is right—and he has a sinking feeling that he _is_ right—he needs to be ready at a moment’s notice to grab Betty by the hand and flee. He can only hope he can convince Veronica to come with them. And if he _can’t…_ well. He glances back at Betty. She watches Archie with troubled eyes. While she might not agree with him yet, he can tell that she is finally taking him seriously.

He would never admit it aloud, but his focus has narrowed to one, overpowering thought: protect Betty, get Betty out of this at all costs.

He turns back to his friends. Veronica has taken Archie into her arms and she rocks him back and forth while murmuring in his ear.

“Veronica, you need to get away from him.” His voice sounds cold even to his own ears. But there is no _time._ “I mean it. He could be contagious.”

Veronica barely glances up at him. “Jughead, I don’t know what conspiracy theory your brain has cooked up this time, but you could not drag me away from Archie at gunpoint right now.”

“V,” says Betty softly, “Jughead is right. Archie might be… he could be contagious. I think you should do what he says.”

Archie shifts in Veronica’s arms. His face is still pale, his teeth chattering. His eyes find Jughead’s.

“Jug,” he says. His voice is a rasp. “What I saw up there… is it happening to me? Am I turning into one of them?”

Jughead swallows hard. A part of him wants to cry, but he merely says, “Yes.”

With a burst of strength, Archie pushes Veronica away and then stumbles to his feet. He backs away from them, his limbs shaky and uncoordinated. “I can… feel it…” he rasps. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. I…” his chin dips, and something that sounds like a growl tears out of his mouth before he shakes his head. He balls his hands into fists and then looks up at them.

Veronica stares up at him in horror. “Archiekins?”

“Do what he says,” Archie all but growls. “Get away from me, Ronnie. I mean it. I’m not safe.”

“This place must have a hidden exit or a tunnel or something,” says Jughead urgently. “Veronica?” he snaps. “We need to get out. Now.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t leave him.”

“Yes, you can,” Archie says. His chin dips again, but he summons his strength and takes two more shaky steps away from them. “You get out of here and you lock the door behind you. I’ll be safe down here, Ronnie. When this wears off, you’ll come and find me and let me out. Okay?”

“We could tie you up,” Veronica says desperately. “Watch over you until this, whatever it is, until it wears off.”

“Not enough time,” says Jughead. Archie’s entire body is trembling and he can see that the only reason he has not changed yet is through stubborn determination to give them time to get away. But even Archie’s stubborn determination will wear off. “We have to go. Now.”

Veronica stumbles to her feet, her horrified gaze still trained to Archie. She takes a few steps in his direction but Betty grabs her hand and drags her back.

“We’ll come back for him, V,” she says with a warm smile. “In a few hours, when all this blows over. He’ll be here waiting for us. Okay? But right now, we have to do what Jughead says. We have to get out of here.”

“Guys,” says Archie in a strangled voice. “I think you need to run.”

Jughead does not need to be told twice. He grabs Betty by her other hand and takes off in the opposite direction, yanking Betty and Veronica along with him.

“Behind the bar!” Veronica yells. She leans over the bar and bends over to grab a lever hidden out of sight. Next to the bar, the wall groans and a hidden door appears in a crack in the wall. Jughead hurriedly pries the door open with his fingertips. Behind them, he hears an ear-splitting scream and wail in what used to be Archie’s voice.

Veronica sobs, but he does not give her time to turn back. He grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her through the door. He and Betty follow behind her. They burst out into a dusty tunnel covered in cobwebs and exposed piping. He quickly throws the door closed behind them as something solid crashes into it from the other side.

Archie’s voice screams and wails on the other side.

Veronica takes a step back, eyes wide with horror. “Archie,” she murmurs. Betty hurriedly goes to comfort her friend, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll come back, V,” she whispers. “I promise that we’ll come back.”

But then her eyes meet Jughead’s and he can see that the realization has dawned for her the same way as it has dawned for him.

They will not be back. Archie is gone and there is nothing they can do for him. The only thing they can do is try and survive a little longer.

The door shudders behind them as Archie—or what used to be Archie—throws his considerable weight up against it from the other side.

“We need to get out of here,” says Jughead. “Now.”

Betty nods. She releases Veronica and then crouches down to pick up a discarded pipe. “We have to assume anyone we see is infected,” she says. “If anything jumps out at us, we go straight for the head. No hesitation. Let’s go.”

Jughead bends down and grabs his own pipe before falling into step beside Betty. He itches to take the lead down the tunnel, but he is also all too aware of Archie who could break out behind them and come tearing after them at a moment’s notice. He settles for following closely behind Betty where he feels he can keep an eye on what is in front of and behind them.

* * *

The corridor is narrow and they walk one at a time, Betty in front with the loose pipe held out firmly in her hands, Jughead behind her, and Veronica at their heels. There are only a few scattered bulbs of overhead lighting. At his back, Veronica opens the flashlight app on her phone and shines it in front of them. The light from the phone glints off the cement walls, lighting up spider webs and exposed cracks and beams.

From behind them, they can still hear the muffled sounds of Archie growling and scrabbling at the doorway through which they disappeared.

“Faster,” Jughead hisses to Betty’s back, “we need to go faster.”

Betty throws him a look of disbelief over her shoulder. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re both in _heels.”_

He does not have a response to that. She is right—he had not noticed. Oh, he had been aware that Betty looked particularly lovely that evening in a light pink gown that was low cut enough to give him certain _ideas_ , but his gaze had certainly never lingered on her footwear.

He swears quietly and then cricks his neck back to Veronica. “How much longer?”

“A few minutes,” Veronica says. “For obvious reasons, I generally avoid using this tunnel. It must have been built during Prohibition for smugglers. It takes us under Pop’s and then across the street.”

Jughead grunts in acknowledgment. Then, from behind them, he hears a massive bang, and a crash, like a door being forced off its hinges followed by a roar that fills the tunnel and makes the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“RUN!” he shouts.

Even in her heels, Betty immediately takes off, Jughead right behind her. He does not look back to see if Veronica is following them, but he hears her footsteps pounding behind him, and the flashlight from her phone bounces wildly off the walls in front and beside them.

They run without looking back. Betty stumbles, arms flailing in the air for balance, and he catches her around the waist before nudging her forward again. Archie’s growls behind them have quieted and it makes his stomach churn. Over their pounding feet and ragged breathing, there is no way to know how close he is.

Finally, Betty yells out: “I see it! The door.”

She puts on a burst of speed and Jughead follows. When Betty reaches the door, she yanks at the handle and then swears. “It’s stuck!”

He pushes his way to her side. The door handle is metal and stick shaped, but the years of unuse have caused it to rust and rot. He hands Betty his pipe and then circles it with both hands, yanking it up with all his might while throwing his shoulder against the frame of the door. The handle moves a few inches in his hands and the door shudders. He grits his teeth and heaves, pressing his shoulder against the door with everything he has.

The door cracks open. Betty throws herself against it next to him. Together, they push until the door opens up wide enough that they can fit through one at a time.

He hesitates—should he go through first? After all, they don’t know what is going to greet them on the other side of the door. But then Betty grabs his shoulder.

“It’s Veronica,” she whispers.

He whips his head around. Veronica is standing with her back to him, her phone held up in front of her. Her hands are shaking and the light from her flashlight app vibrates in the air.

“Archie?” she says. “Is that you?”

_Shit._ Jughead seizes Betty and pushes her through the crack in the door. “Go,” he hisses.

“But Veronica—”

“We’ll be right behind you. _Stay on guard_!”

With that, he rushes to Veronica’s side. He reaches for her elbow, but a snarling noise makes him pause. There, illuminated in the shaky light of Veronica’s flashlight, is Jughead’s best friend.

Or the remnants of what used to be his best friend.

It is Archie, but his face is all _wrong._ His eyes are sunken and yellowed. His cheeks are swollen and peeling. He sniffs the air, like a dog searching for a trail home, and then his head turns in their direction. His lips peel back and his teeth snap at the air.

Jughead should be horrified. He should be grief stricken. Whatever has happened to Archie cannot be explained by a drug gone wrong. His friend is gone, and in its place is this… _thing._

But all he can think is: _Betty._ He has to get back to Betty. He sent Betty out there—out on the streets, _alone_ , where there could be hundreds more of these things.

“Archie?” Veronica whimpers. She reaches out a hand in Archie’s direction—actually _stretches her hand out towards those snapping teeth_ —and sheer instinct has Jughead grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her backwards.

Archie lurches forward, his teeth closing around empty space. Jughead brings the pipe up and when Archie lunches again, he is ready. He swings the pipe with all his strength towards his best friend’s face. The pipe lands against Archie’s cheek and his head snaps back. Veronica screams.

Jughead lowers the pipe, his hands shaking. Guilt gnaws at him. He tells himself that Archie would want this— _welcome_ this if it meant protecting Veronica. But he knows that he will relive this moment again and again in his nightmares.

The pipe barely seems to slow Archie. He raises his head back up, snarling, a gaping hole in his cheek where his skin used to be. Veronica screams again.

Jughead scrambles backwards, pulling Veronica with him. “ _Go_!” he shouts.

He pushes her to the door and all but shoves her through before squeezing himself through after her, pulling the pipe with him. He hears Archie’s teeth snapping behind him before a rush of cool air hits his face. Then Betty is next to him, throwing herself against the door at the same time as Archie tries to push his way through towards him.

Jughead whips around and raises the pipe into the narrow space between the door and the wall. He aims for Archie’s head, but the pipe crashes down between his neck and shoulder. Archie stumbles back a few steps and then charges forward. Jughead raises the pipe again and this time makes contact with Archie’s head. There is a horrible _crunch_ noise like a bug that has been squashed and then a gurgling noise comes out of Archie’s mouth. He totters and then begins to lose his footing.

Jughead does not see what happens next because Betty finally manages to get the door shut. Jughead is still holding the pipe in midair. The pipe is covered in blood and what Jughead is almost certain is part of Archie’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Veronica fall to her knees. She grips her cell phone between her hands. “Archie,” she whispers. “No. Please, no.” Then, whipping her head in Jughead’s direction, she hisses, “What have you done? You killed him. You killed Archie.”

“I didn’t,” Jughead whispers. He strains to listen. Only silence greets him from the other side of the door.

Betty plants herself between Jughead and Veronica. When she speaks, her voice is hard. “He _saved_ you, V. Just like Archie wanted. I’m sorry that this has happened. I’m sorry about Archie. But you know what he would say if he was here. He would tell you to get back on your feet and to run. If this thing is spreading through town, more of them are going to be on us any minute now.”

Jughead slowly lowers the pipe. A feeling he recognizes as shock is still clouding his brain, but he forces himself to push through it. Betty is right. With the commotion they just made, it is a matter of minutes before they are found by something else like Archie.

Veronica looks up at Betty with glassy eyes. “Betty,” she says in a broken voice, “did you see his face…?”

“I know,” Betty says, her voice softer. “Come on, V. On your feet. Just like Archie would want.”

Veronica sniffles and then pushes herself to her feet, but Jughead can tell from her vacant expression that she is barely with them. Jughead glances down at the pipe in his hands, still covered in blood— _Archie’s blood._ He wants to throw it away and leave it behind. At the very least, he feels like he needs to _clean_ it. Wipe off his friend’s blood.

He looks up and finds Betty’s gaze on him like she knows what he is thinking. Her expression tells him to hold it together. He forces himself to nod, forces himself to keep his grip on the pipe.

“We need a plan,” he says briskly. He glances around, taking in their surroundings for the first time. The passageway must have taken them under the parking lot and dumped them about a block away from Pop’s. The road back to the centre of town stretches out in front of them and the forest is at their backs.

From their vantage point, Pop’s is perfectly lit up against the night sky. What they can see of it is horrifying. Inside, the windows are smeared with blood and gore. The figures of what used to be their classmates shamble around, some of their mouths clawing at the windows. Outside, more of them shamble around the parking lot, arms held out in front of them. Periodically, they pause, sniff the air, and then go back to their shambling. Body parts are strewn across the parking lot. Some of the shambling figures are missing arms, parts of torsos, even legs. One figure drags itself on its arms, its entire bottom half seemingly strewn off. Even from down the street, their low moans send shivers down Jughead’s spine.

“Oh Dios mio,” Veronica murmurs. “We sent Archie into that.”

“We didn’t know,” says Betty. “If we had, we… we didn’t know.”

Jughead tears his gaze away from the horror show at Pop’s. He moves to Betty’s sides. “We have to get out of here. Quickly. It’s only a matter of time before those…” he stumbles over the words. Those _things_ used to be his friends. “Before they realize we’re here,” he finishes.

“Quickly _and_ quietly,” says Betty. She eyes the woods. “We should take to the forest. Use the shelter to circle back to town. We’re easy prey standing on the street like this.”

“We could be stuck in the forest for days,” says Jughead. “We have no food. No water. And we’ll crunch over the leaves and twigs in there loud enough to alert anything within two miles of us. And how far are you and Veronica going to get in your heels? No, we should stick to the road. Find a vehicle. Get to shelter.”

Betty opens her mouth to argue and then she pauses, forehead creasing. Then Jughead hears it. A car engine rumbling in the distance and getting louder by the moment. He chances a glance at Pop’s. The zombies in the parking lot pause their shambling and cock their heads in the direction of the noise.

“ _Shit_ ,” says Jughead. He grabs Betty by the wrist and tugs her to the ground. He falls to a squat, relieved when Veronica and Betty follow suit. The rumbling from the car engine grows louder and then it swings into view, its headlights illuminating them clearly by the side of the road.

Down the street, one of the zombies in front of Pop’s emits a blood curdling scream and then, as if unified in purpose, they start running in their direction.

“ _Shit, shit, shit_ ,” Jughead says again. He grips the pipe in his hand. There is no way he can fight off all of them. He glances over at Betty. Her jaw is clenched as if she is physically reining in her fear. Her hand curls just as tightly around her own pipe. He forces himself to speak. “When I say go, grab Veronica and make a break for it to the forest. I’ll slow them down.”

She gives him a stricken look, but before she can say anything the vehicle pulls to a stop in front of them, its tires squealing against the pavement. The vehicle—a black Cadillac sedan—is now between them and the quickly approaching zombie horde.

The passenger window descends and then Hiram Lodge’s voice yells, “Get in! Now!”

They do not need to be told twice. Jughead practically pushes Betty towards the car. She yanks the back door open and tumbles in, Jughead right behind her, while Veronica climbs into the front seat. Jughead has barely closed the door behind him when Hiram presses his foot down on the accelerator and the car springs forward.

Jughead glances out the rear windshield. The zombies are mere metres behind them. There seems to be an entire horde of them running towards them from Pop’s like a nightmare wedding procession. In the seething crowd, he catches a glimpse at Kevin’s face. His former friend has yellow protruding eyes, just like Archie. His cheeks and jowls are sunken, his clothes ripped and torn, and an entire chunk seems to be missing from his right hip like he had been held down and feasted on until he turned.

Bile rises in Jughead’s throat and he hurriedly turns around to face front as Hiram races down the road.

“How did you find us?” says Jughead.

Hiram glances over at Veronica and then, with reluctance, he says, “I have a tracking device on Veronica’s phone.”

She gasps. “You have a _what_?”

“Yell at me later,” Hiram snaps. “Right now it saved your life. When I heard about the carnage at Pop’s, I thought that you…” he sucks in a breath. “But I followed your signal. You found a way out. And I told myself I would be there for you when I did.” He glances at Betty and Jughead in the rear view mirror and then something seems to strike him. “Where’s Archie?”

Veronica lets out a shuddering sob. “He’s gone, daddy. Archie’s gone.”

Hiram’s voice is surprisingly gentle when he says, “I’m sorry, mija.”

“Mr. Lodge,” says Betty, “do you know what’s happening? Our friends, they…”

“They’re dead,” he says flatly. “And before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with this. I would never release a virus that would harm my daughter.”

Jughead cannot stop his snort. “Right, because you have such a stellar reputation in that regard.”

“Jughead, whatever else you may think of me, I am at the end of the day a practical man. My only goal is to be the best mayor of Riverdale that I can be and run a successful rum business. A virus that turns our town into cannibals is somewhat contrary to those goals.”

“Then who did this?”

Hiram pauses before answering. “I don’t know.”

He pushes down on the accelerator again. Veronica covers her face with her hands and emits a shaky breath. “Where are we going?”

“We need to get out of town,” Hiram says. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. “My sources tell me that the feds are in the process of sealing up all of Riverdale. Once they do, no one is getting out with their life.”

Betty shoots Jughead a panicked look. He can tell exactly what she is thinking—what about their family? His father, Alice…. _Jellybean._

From the front seat, Veronica says, “We can’t just _leave_ , daddy. What about mom? We have to go back for her.”

“I’m sorry, mija,” says Hiram. His words are heavy. “She didn’t make it.”

“What do you mean she didn’t make it?”

“Those creatures are not just at Pop’s,” says Hiram. “They got into the Pembrooke. And your mother and I, we had to get to you.”

“So you _left_ her?”

“Veronica, there was nothing I could do,” says Hiram. “Your mother and I left with a common purpose: to get to you. We were in agreement. At all costs, one of us had to survive.” In a softer voice, he says, “She knew the risks, mija. She gave her life to give me a chance to find you.”

“Jug,” Betty says softly. “My mom, FP…”

“I know,” he says, matching her soft tone. “They took Jellybean out for dinner in Centerville, right? Maybe they’re still there.”

“They have zombies in Centerville, Jughead,” says Hiram. His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m sorry.”

“We have to go there,” Betty bursts out. “Mr. Lodge, I’m sorry about Hermione, I am, but you could help us—”

“Absolutely not,” says Hiram. His voice is firm. “We are going in one direction and one direction only. As far away from all of this as possible.”

Jughead opens his mouth to argue, but then his eyes are drawn to Hiram’s hands around the steering wheel. Even in the faint light inside the car, he can tell that something is wrong with his right hand. His sleeve is pulled up almost to his knuckles, and the fingers from his hand look red and swollen.

“You had to fight your way out of the Pembrooke,” Jughead says slowly. “Of course you did. The car was parked in the garage.”

Hiram glances at him darkly in the rear view mirror. “That’s right,” he says.

“Your right hand,” says Jughead. “Why is it bleeding?”

Veronica twists around and stares at her father’s hand on the steering wheel in horror. “Daddy….”

“I’m fine,” says Hiram. He pulls up his sleeve even further with his other hand. “As I said, we had to fight our way out of the Pembrooke.”

“Mr. Lodge,” says Betty quietly. “Were you bitten?”

There is a long, lengthy pause and then Veronica says, “Answer her question. Were you bitten?”

“No!” he says sharply. And then, more hesitantly, “At least, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t _think_ so?” says Jughead.

“I had to fight them off,” he says. “After Hermione… after I lost Hermione, they descended on me. I had a gun, but it wasn’t enough. I had to fight them off. In the tussle, I hurt my hand. That’s all.”

“Stop the car,” Betty murmurs, and then louder, “Mr. Lodge, stop the car.”

“Betty, don’t be insane, you can’t last out there—”

“We saw what happened to Archie!” Betty yells. “If you are turning into one of them, we cannot be in here when you do.”

“And I _told_ you, I wasn’t bitten. If I let you kids out there, you have no chance of surviving.”

“I would rather take the risk out there than in here,” Jughead says. “Now let us out.”

“I will not,” says Hiram. “You kids understand that there is nothing back there, don’t you? It is a miracle that you survived this long. You only did because you were lucky enough to be in La Bonne Nuit when this first hit the town. If it hadn’t been for that, you would have perished along with the rest of your classmates.” He turns his head around to look at them, hands still on the steering wheel. “Your families, your parents? They are dead. Your only hope is with me.”

“I don’t accept that,” Betty hisses. “Now let us out.”

“WATCH OUT!” Veronica yells.

Jughead has no chance to brace himself before the car shudders and the tires screech along the pavement. His body is thrown forward only for the shoulder strap of his seatbelt to yank him back into place. The sound of scraping metal fills the air. Veronica screams as the airbags in front of Mr. Lodge deploy and the front windshield cracks and then explodes.

It is all over a few seconds later. Jughead’s heartbeat rings in his ears as he tries to take in what happened to them. Their vehicle has smashed into the side of another car. The other car twists across the front of their vehicle in a v-shape formation. The windshield in front of Mr. Lodge and Veronica has completely blown to bits with glass lining the inside of the dashboard.

Jughead’s hands shake as he fumbles with his seatbelt. “Is everyone okay?” he calls. “Betty?”

“Yeah,” she responds. Her voice is faint but clear. He twists around to study her for himself. She has a small cut above her eye and her colouring is pale, but otherwise he does not see any broken bones or other signs of injury.

He turns his attention to the front seat. “Veronica? Mr. Lodge?”

“I’m here,” says Veronica. “I’m okay. But daddy…”

Jughead finally manages to release his seatbelt. He twists himself around and follows Veronica’s gaze to where Hiram is lying hunched over, his face pressed into the airbag.

“I don’t think he’s moving,” Veronica whispers. She scrambles to undo her own seatbelt and then hisses as she climbs over broken pieces of glass to get closer to him. She reaches out to touch his shoulder, gives him a shake, and then in a louder voice says, “Daddy?”

“Don’t get too close, V,” Betty warns. “We still don’t know if he was infected or not.”

“She’s right,” says Jughead. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

“We can’t leave him!” says Veronica.

Jughead bites his lip so he does not say something to Veronica that will only make her dig in. He glances over at Betty, and from the determined look on her face, he can tell that she is thinking the same thing he is. They have to get out of here. Now. The sound of the car crash alone would give away their location to anyone—or anything—within a mile of their location.

“Of course not, V,” says Betty soothingly. “But we need to get help, okay? Try your door. Can you get out?”

Betty’s words seem to get through to Veronica. She tries the handle on her door. It shudders and then creaks open. Jughead glances once more in Betty’s direction and then tries his own door, relieved when it opens without difficulty.

He grabs the pipe at his feet and then stumbles out of the car. Archie’s blood still stains the bottom of the pipe, but the blood has dried and crusted. The night is eerily silent. He strains to listen for traffic moving in the distance, but only hears wind whistling faintly through the trees. The forest lining both sides of the road seems to press down on them.

In front of him, Veronica stands shakily in her heels. Her face is cut and bruised from the shattered windshield, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She wrings her hands together, her eyes going from the car, to Hiram’s prone body, and then to the car that they smashed into.

“Where did it come from?” she says finally. “It’s like someone just abandoned it in the middle of the road.”

Jughead thinks that is _exactly_ what happened. The question is, why?

The thought has barely formed in his mind when he hears a low snarl in the distance. The hair stands up on his neck. He presses his back against the car and raises the pipe, his eyes going to the forest. His eyes track the faint outline of the trees, straining to catch movement amongst the forest.

Then Veronica starts screaming. He turns around in time to catch one of those _things_ —a zombie—leap out from around the other vehicle. The zombie was once a large man with a pot belly, but like their friends, his face is twisted and bloated, more animal than human. Before he can move, the zombie has Veronica down on the ground, and its teeth are on her throat.

He stares in horror as Veronica tries to fight off her attacker and then screams in pain as the zombie’s teeth dig into the flesh between her shoulder and neck.

“No,” he murmurs. “No.”

_Not again._ He can’t do this again.

Veronica screams again and the noise echoes painfully in his head. The _one thing_ he promised his best friend was to protect his girl. Some job he has done. Was it only an hour ago they were popping a champagne bottle at La Bonne Nuit to celebrate their last day of high school? This must all be a dream. Or a really bad drug trip. Any moment now, he is going to wake up, and he is going to be with his friends, and none of this will be real.

Betty shouts. “Veronica!!”

Betty’s voice cuts through the fog in his brain. He pivots and catches Betty in his arms before she can reach her fallen friend. His blood is pumping, _roaring._ He cannot, _will not_ allow Betty to get near that thing.

“STAY HERE!” he hollers at her. He raises the pipe over his head, but before he can bring it down on the zombie’s head, a gunshot rings out.

The zombie makes a noise like the whine of a puppy dog and then slumps over Veronica, unmoving.

Hiram Lodge is crouched in the passenger seat, gun held out in front of him. He is bleeding from the forehead and his face is ashen.

“No,” he whispers. “Veronica.”

Veronica struggles to escape from the unmoving zombie pinning her to the ground. Jughead hurriedly goes to help her. He crouches down and with a grunt of effort, pushes the zombie off Veronica’s body. It rolls over and then lies on its back, its swollen and reddened face staring up at the sky. A hole from the gunshot is carved into the middle of its forehead.

Blood pours from Veronica’s neck and shoulders. She presses a hand to her wound, but blood seeps through her fingers and over the back of her hand.

Jughead goes to help her, but she shakes her head at him. “Don’t get too close,” she says. Her words are slurred. “We don’t know when I’ll…”

She trails off and then twists around to look up at her father. Hiram’s face is shining with unshed tears. He looks like a broken man. Jughead feels a stir of sympathy for him. First his wife, now his daughter.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” she whispers from the ground. Her face is losing colour. “You worked so hard to rescue me.”

“No,” he says again.

Jughead backs up a step until he reaches Betty. She grabs his arm and then presses her face into his shoulder, muffling a sob.

Then Hiram says, “Get in the car, Veronica.”

“No,” she whimpers. “I’ll infect you.” She looks up at Betty and Jughead and her voice breaks. “All of you. You need to get away from me.”

“I don’t accept that,” says Hiram harshly. “Now get in the car. We are going to find you a doctor. And we are going to stop this.”

“No, daddy, I—”

“ _Get in the car!”_ says Hiram again.

Something in his tone convinces Veronica. She rises to her feet on shaky legs and then all but collapses into the passenger seat of the car. She leans heavily back against the seat, her gaze glassy and unfocused.

“It’s not going to be long now,” she whispers. “Please save yourself, daddy.”

“Too late,” says Hiram. With a grunt, he pulls at the air bag and then pushes it out of the way so he can reach the ignition. He turns the keys and, miraculously, the car turns on.

He puts the car into reverse and the car shudders, but backs away from the wreck. He brings the car to a stop and then lowers the passenger side window. He leans over Veronica to address Jughead and Betty.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t take you with me,” he says. “It wouldn’t be safe for you.” Then he throws them the gun. Jughead catches it awkwardly, the pipe clattering to the ground at his feet. “Good luck,” says Hiram. “You’re going to need it.”

Without another word, he pulls away and then drives off. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to THE arsenicpanda for the beta job and for being a wonderful soundboard!

Silent tears stream down Betty’s cheeks as Hiram’s car disappears in the distance.

“I didn’t even say goodbye,” she whispers.

Jughead has no words to make any of this better. He simply reaches for her hand, squeezes it tightly, and gives her a few moments to collect herself as his mind spins.

They are stranded in the middle of a highway halfway out of town. They do not have a car. They do not have shelter. They do not have food or water. 

They _do_ have a gun. Not that he has ever, in his life, used a gun. He does not even know if Hiram handed it to him with the safety on or off.

As far as he sees it, there is only one real choice. They have to get to their family. The problem is, _how?_ They don’t even know where they _are._

He thinks back to that morning. Alice had confronted them in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “ _Since apparently you would rather celebrate your graduation with your friends than with your family,”_ she had said, “ _FP and I are going to take Jellybean out for our own celebration.”_

But where? He _thinks_ the restaurant they settled on is in Centerville, the reservation for 7:00pm. What time had it been when the zombies first hit? Would they still have been at dinner? On their way home? Or, worse, had they already made it back to Riverdale? 

He has seen enough to know that _“back to Riverdale”_ means they went back to certain death.

“They went somewhere Italian,” he whispers. “My dad, your mom, Jellybean. What was the name?”

Betty sniffles and nods. “The Red Tomato or the Green Tomato. Something tomato.”

“Okay,” he says shakily. “Okay. We have a destination.”

“Centerville,” she says dully. Then she shakes herself. “Jug, what if they were already back home when it happened?”

“I’ve thought of that,” he says heavily. “But we can’t go back. We would never make it home alive. My dad can handle himself. He’ll protect your mom and JB. We have to trust that, okay? Until we can find some way to contact them, we just… we need…”

“Jug—”

“I’m serious,” he says gruffly, voice rising. He thinks about Archie. He thinks about Veronica. He could not bear it if Betty had the same fate. He quiets his next words to an urgent whisper. “You heard Mr. Lodge. Riverdale is overrun. We have one job now, Betty, and one job only.”

She looks away, but she sets her jaw. “Stay alive,” she whispers.

“That’s right,” he says. “We stay alive for another hour. Then a second hour. Three hours. Maybe a day. Then we reassess. We look for a way to get to them.”

She hisses out a breath. “We have to get out of the road. It’s not safe.”

She gestures her head towards the car still sitting in the middle of the road, the one that Mr. Lodge t-boned with his Cadillac. Jughead is not sure that the car will run, but it is worth a shot.

They approach the car cautiously. In the front seat, a body is bent over the steering wheel as if folded in half.

“Careful,” Betty whispers. “It could be one of them.”

Jughead gingerly tries the handle on the door. The door opens easily, but the frame is mangled and twisted from the crash. He winces as a whining noise fills the air, his breath coming out in short gasps— _too loud, this is too loud, they are making too much noise_. As soon as the door opens, the figure bent over the steering wheel begins to moan and lift its head. Betty appears beside him. She brings down the pipe— _crunch_ —she brings it down a second time— _crunch_ again—and the figure goes still.

Working silently, he and Betty heave the body from the car. They drag the body to the side of the road and then roll the body into the ditch. He does not look at the body’s face. He does not look at its clothes or check to see if it was male or female. He forces himself to think of it as an “ _it”—_ not something that was once a person.

Betty takes the driver’s side while Jughead hops into the passenger seat. The key is still in the ignition. Betty expels a breath when the car turns on and they exchange a hopeful look before she puts it into drive. The car groans and rumbles, but it moves forward.

Betty glances behind her like she is considering one more time whether they should head back to Riverdale, but then she faces the road. The car bucks and whines as it moves forward. She presses down on the accelerator and winces.

“We are not going to get very far,” says Betty. “Or go very fast.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose while he thinks. They are not going to make it to Centerville tonight. They need shelter, somewhere they can barricade the entry and exit points. They need sleep. “We need a house,” he says. “Somewhere we can hole up and rest.”

Betty does not respond right away. When she does, her voice is hesitant. “A house that’s empty?”

“That would be best.”

“I’ll look for something.”

She drives slowly. The road is littered with other cars. Some of the cars are by the side of the road with the doors flung open like their occupants beat a hasty retreat on foot. Other cars look like they were caught in wrecks similar to the one they experienced. In others, he catches sight of figures struggling against their seatbelts, their arms and legs flapping in the air with limited motor control.

Betty carefully navigates around the cars and the wrecks. Occasionally, her gaze lingers on some of the abandoned cars like she is wondering whether they should be switching vehicles. But she does not stop.

He stays rigid in the passenger seat. His sweaty hand clutches the gun from Mr. Lodge. He keeps it pointed to the ground but he does not let go of it.

The further they get from Riverdale, the more the wreckage on the road thins. The abandoned cars stretch to every half mile to every mile to every two miles.

Finally, Betty clears her throat and says, “Jug, we’re coming to the end of this gas tank.” She pauses. “And an end to this car.”

Betty pulls off the road a quarter mile later. He sees the _“Caution: Hidden_ _Drive_ ” sign before she makes a right turn onto a narrow driveway. The driveway is made up of dirt and rocks and surrounded on both sides by a narrow ditch and imposing balsam trees. She slows the car to a dull rumble and follows the driveway to a wide clearing. A two-storey farmhouse rises up in front of them.

The front door is wide open and swings gently back and forth in the wind. No lights are on outside or inside of the house.

Betty brings the car to a stop next to a tractor. The engine rumbles one more time before she turns the key and it shuts off.

They sit in silence for a few moments, their breathing the only noise inside the car.

“Do you think it’s abandoned?” she whispers.

“If we’re in luck,” he says. And they could really use some luck. “But we should wait. See if anything comes out to greet us.”

The car has made such a ruckus that he is worried they have announced themselves to anything that might still be hiding in the farmhouse. They know so little about these creatures. They seem to be attracted to sound. Is a rumbling car engine the type of noise that would bring them running? And what about light? They still have human eyes, human senses. Presumably, that would make them sensitive to both sound and light. They need to keep quiet—quiet and invisible. 

They wait tensely, not speaking. Five minutes pass. Ten.

“Okay,” he relents. “Let’s go in.”

They exit the car through Jughead’s side, Betty wiggling her way into the passenger seat before following him out of the car. Then, walking single file, they creep towards the house.

Jughead enters first, gun held out in front of him.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Betty hisses behind him.

He grunts in response. The answer is closer to “no” than “maybe” but holding the gun still gives him a sense of security.

Betty closes the door behind them and they both wince as it squeaks on its hinges before clicking back into place.

The house stretches out in front of them, dark and unknown, the only source of light the faint moonlight in the outdoor sky. He strains to listen for any signs of life—footsteps, movement, a creak on a floorboard. There is nothing.

He fumbles for his cell phone and turns on its flashlight app. Illuminated in front of him is a staircase covered in brown carpet and a black, iron bannister, twisting up to the second level and out of sight. Next to it is a hallway that stretches towards what seems to be a sitting room.

They proceed slowly, flashlights held up in front of them. They search the sitting room first, entering back to back. There is a TV over an electric fireplace and a spacious couch in front of a two-paned glass window.

“It’s empty,” he whispers to Betty. He swallows, and once again strains to listen for signs of life or movement in the house. From upstairs, he hears what sounds like the pitter patter of feet and he tenses, a chill running up and down his spine. But the sound disappears as quickly as it came.

He swallows down the fear building in his chest. Is he imagining things? Are his ears straining for noises that are not there? He has to stay focused.

“Jug?” Betty prods. She holds the pipe from La Bonne Nuit tightly in both her hands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s keep going.”

They follow the hall to the kitchen. There, they find the cupboard doors strewn open, the shelves stripped mostly bare of food. His stomach sinks in disappointment as his flashlight lingers on the empty shelves. Already he can feel hunger building inside of him. _A problem for later,_ he tells himself.

“Someone left here in a hurry,” Betty whispers.

He should be heartened—after all, this is the luck that they wanted, isn’t it? An empty house. But _something_ made whoever fled this house leave in a hurry. And they are bound to catch up with that something sooner rather than later.

“We have to check upstairs,” he says. He thinks about the noise he heard and he swallows heavily.

He chances a glance at Betty. Her face looks wan and pale in the faint glow from his phone’s flashlight. He carefully sets the gun down on the kitchen counter and then pulls Betty into his arms, burying his nose in her hair and breathing in deeply.

Betty clings back to him, seeming to need the reassurance and closeness just as badly as he does. Her arms hook around his waist, her cheek nestling under his neck.

He realizes that he is murmuring to her _—_ “ _it’s okay, we’re both okay, it’s going to be okay, I promise”—_ although he is not sure which one of them he is trying to reassure.

She murmurs back to him: “I know, Jug. I know. We’re going to make it through this, okay? Together.”

When he lets go of her, he feels chilled and empty. He wants to reach for her hand, wants the reassurance of keeping her close to him. But they need both their hands free in case… well, just in case. He picks the gun back up. Betty clutches her pipe. Then, with only their cell phones to illuminate the path, they creep to the stairs.

He climbs the stairs first. He keeps his footsteps light and soft, but the stairs still creak and groan under his feet. His heart pounds wildly in his chest. He is all too aware that at any moment, one of those things could jump out of the darkness and lunge at them.

The top of the stairs brings them to a hallway with four closed doors. There is a small window on the opposite of the hallway, its curtains pulled back, and the dull moonlight making patterns on the wood floor in front of him. He gestures for Betty to follow behind him.

He pauses outside of the first doorway and strains to listen for movement. He whispers to Betty, “You open the door, I’ll go in first.”

“Take the pipe,” she says in a shaky voice. “The sound from the gun will travel.”

He nods and they do a quick swap. She takes the gun and hands him the pipe. Her hand closes around the doorknob. “Ready?”

“Ready,” he confirms.

She opens the door and he darts into the room, the pipe held out in front of him. He looks wildly around as Betty illuminates the room behind him with her cell phone. The room contains a four poster bed, a single window, and a dresser. It is empty.

He slowly lowers the pipe. One door down; three more to go. Maybe they will get lucky.

The next door opens to a four piece bathroom—also empty.

At the third door, they stop and listen outside of the door. And that’s when he hears it. A low moan—a moan that is _almost_ human, but not quite—a moan that sends shivers down his spine.

“There is something in there,” he whispers to Betty.

Her eyes are wide. “We could leave it. Keep the door closed.”

“We don’t know what they’re capable of yet,” he says. “What if it finds a way to get out? We can’t take the risk that it finds its way out when we’re sleeping.”

“Jug…”

“I know.” He sucks in a breath. “On five.”

He counts to five and Betty flings the door open. Jughead stays outside, adjacent to the door, pipe held over his head. As soon as the door is open, the _thing_ inside—the zombie—makes a beeline towards them. As it crosses the threshold to the hallway, Jughead brings down the pipe.

He misses the head and the pipe crashes down on the zombie’s shoulder. It growls, its eyes landing on him. He has just enough time to register that the zombie used to be a woman. She is Betty’s height with stringy brown hair that comes to her shoulders. Her cheeks are sunken, her eyes wild.

She hisses and then she lunges at him. He brings the pipe up as a barrier between them as she snaps at him, her teeth inches from his throat. Betty shouts his name. The flashlight from her phone bounces wildly off the walls. All he can think about is that he has to keep the zombie’s snapping teeth away from his skin—if it sinks even one tooth into him, he’s gone, and he can’t be gone, he has to stay, he has to protect Betty

Then Betty launches herself at the zombie’s back, knocking it to the ground with Betty on top. She pins her knees into the zombie’s back and heaves out a muffled scream as the zombie thrashes underneath her, twisting its head left and right as it tries to get its teeth to Betty’s flesh. 

In one quick stride, Jughead has the pipe over his head and brings it down on the back of the woman’s head. The zombie emits an inhuman grunt and then lies still. Betty pants, her knees still digging into the zombie’s back before she hurriedly scrambles backwards and to her feet.

The pipe makes a horrible retracting noise from the woman’s flesh as he brings it up again. His stomach twists as he gets a look at the blood and matted flesh he has left behind in what was once the woman’s skull. He forces himself to turn to Betty and swallows down his bile.

“Are you okay?”

It is a moment before she answers. She hugs herself and then runs her hands up and down her arms. “Yeah.” Her voice sounds faint and far away. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she says in that same strange voice. “Let’s clear the last room.”

They drag the body back into the bedroom and then shut the door. That should give them a few days before the smell of the woman’s flesh becomes intolerable.

They are both shaky as they turn to the last door. Jughead enters the room first with the pipe in front of him, but the room is blessedly empty. He lowers the pipe, heartbeat ringing loudly in his ears.

“I think we’re alone,” he says. His voice sounds scratchy. He should feel relieved, but all he feels is tired. His body feels taut and on edge. Every darkened corner feels like a potential threat.

Betty enters the room behind him, shining her phone around the room. It has a large walk-in closet and an antique dresser as well as an adjoining bathroom.

“This must be the master bedroom,” she says.

Next, they raid the dresser and closet for clothes. Betty quickly sheds her evening gown and pulls on a pair of loose, draw-string yoga pants and a t-shirt that is a size too big. Then she disappears into the bathroom. He hears the water running and when she re-emerges, her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

Jughead finds a pair of black jeans that almost fit him—they hang loose around his waist, and are a few inches too long, but they are more comfortable than his suit. He also finds a battered t-shirt emblazoned with letters that say: _Measure Once, Curse Twice_. Normally he would studiously avoid t-shirts that try to be witty, but in this case, he is grateful for anything that is clean and soft.

There are two laundry baskets in the walk-in closet, both filled halfway to the brim. One would seem to belong to a woman; the other to a man. Jughead feels a pang as he looks into the basket that belonged to the woman—is it the same woman now laying in a pool of her blood and the tattered remains of what used to be her head in the bedroom down the hall?

His stomach turns over and he shakes his head to clear the thought. He cannot waste time on thoughts like that. If he and Betty are to survive in this new world, that woman will not be the last zombie he kills. He reminds himself that he cannot think of her—of them—as people.

He watches silently as Betty gathers up their tattered evening-wear and then dumps them into the laundry basket. Her dress in the woman’s basket; his suit in the man’s basket.

It is an absurd thing to do. They will not be staying long enough to do laundry. And even if they do, they are not going to waste laundry on their old, tattered clothes. But he understands what she is doing. She is reaching for normality. Trying to create some order in their world.

He clears his throat. “We should get some rest.”

They both turn to look at the bed. It is king sized and impeccably made. But he feels uneasy about sleeping in someone else’s bed. He tells himself the owners of the house are long gone (or dead, in the case of the woman down the hall). They have already broken in and will scavenge the house for whatever else they need. But it still feels wrong.

Betty seems to be thinking along the same lines as him. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to sleep downstairs?” she suggests. “Closer to the door.”

He nods and they make their way back downstairs. They stop in the kitchen first. Betty searches through the cupboards while he goes to the fridge and freezer. Although the cupboards had been stripped nearly bare, he is relieved to find the fridge almost full. It makes sense. Anyone leaving in a hurry would grab the non-perishables first.

He ignores the eggs and meat. Later they might have time to cook, but for now, what they need is something quick and easy. He finally pulls out a block of unopened cheddar cheese, a carton of orange juice that is about half full, and a bag of carrots. For Betty’s part, she emerges with peanut butter, granola bars, and a box of soda crackers.

They combine everything together on the kitchen counter. Jughead quickly tears into the food with gusto, his stomach rumbling.

Betty hesitates. Jughead swallows a cracker with peanut butter and then gestures at the food.

“We need to keep our strength up,” he says. “We have the chance to eat now. We need to take it.”

She sighs but she breaks off some of the cheese and shovels it into her mouth. Once she digs in, she eats with similar enthusiasm as him. She was probably hungrier than she knew.

They return to the sitting room after they finish eating. Dawn is breaking outside and he hurriedly pulls the drapes across the window. It is as much to keep anything from seeing in as keeping the light out.

Betty places the pipe from La Bonne Nuit on the floor. He hesitates but then places the gun next to it. He feels bereft without a weapon in his hand, but it is still close by, still within reach.

“We should sleep in shifts,” he says. “Just in case.”

Betty nods. “You first.”

His lips twitch. “Betty Cooper, come on. That’s not very gentlemanly.”

She sits cross-legged on the couch and plays with her fingers in her lap. “I don’t think I can sleep. I’m terrified that I’ll relive it. Archie. Veronica. Or I’ll think about our family… we left them, Jug. We left them.”

“Hey.” Jughead clasps a hand over hers and stills the wringing of her fingers. “We didn’t leave them. We just need a plan, okay?” He clears his throat. “My dad used to be the Serpent King, right? If anyone would know what to do with a zombie horde, it would be him.”

She drops her chin and grasps his hand tightly. “Jughead Jones, sudden optimist,” she whispers. Then, in a firmer voice, she says, “We shouldn’t lie to ourselves. You know what we left behind us. Mr. Lodge said Riverdale was overrun. Chances are, Centerville was too.”

She is right. Optimist he is not. But his mind is not quite prepared to accept that his father is dead. That his little sister could be dead. Or worse. So the only option he has is to believe that they are out there, and that they will find them—somehow.

“I know what he said,” says Jughead. “But we got out of Riverdale. Maybe they did too.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t have that hope, Jug,” she says. Her voice cracks. “I think it might break me.”

She releases his hand, and though he leaves his hand resting on top of hers, he can feel her retreating away from him. Her face shows almost no emotion. She does not cry. She looks like she has gone to the edge of what a person can feel and come out the other side again. Until she found nothingness.

He shifts on the couch until he is next to her, body angling towards her. “I know it feels helpless,” he murmurs. “But we still have each other.” She gives no sign that she is listening to him. Very gently, he cups her face and turns her head until she is looking at him. “Hey, I mean it. I have you, Betty. So long as I have you, I have a reason to keep going. And I promise you, so long as I am alive, I will be with you.”

Her face crumbles. “Jug…” she whispers.

He opens his arms and she collapses against him, face pressed against his chest. She does not say anything but she clutches him tightly enough that he can tell he is the same lifeline for her as she is for him.

“Sleep,” he says. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He worries she will protest again, but she closes her eyes. Within a few minutes, her breathing slows and then evens out. He presses his lips to the crown of her head, gaze lingering on the pipe and gun they left sitting on the floor. He reminds himself that their weapons are within reach if he needs them.

An hour passes. Maybe two. Even with the curtains drawn across the windows, the room steadily grows brighter as the sun rises outside.

Eventually his own eyes start to grow heavy. No matter how adamant he is about protecting Betty while she sleeps, it has still been a full day since he last slept. It is only a matter of time before he drifts off.

He carefully extricates himself from Betty. He places a pillow under her head and finds a blanket folded over the back of the couch which he gently pulls over her body.

She stirs but does not open her eyes. “Jug?”

“I’m going scavenging,” he whispers to her, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

“K,” she says.

He watches her a moment to make sure she really does fall back asleep. Eventually her breathing evens out and she turns on the couch, burying into the blanket.

Before leaving the room, he dares to pull back the corner of the drapes covering the window and peaks outside. In the daytime light, he has a clear view of the driveway where they dumped their wrecked car the previous night. His eyes land on a Honda minivan vehicle parked in front of what looks to be a two car garage. He makes a mental note to look for keys while he searches the house.

Before he turns away from the window, he catches a flash of movement. The figure looks to be about six feet tall and 250 pounds. It shuffles down the driveway, each of its steps plodding like its feet are caught in mud.

He quickly drops the drapes, heart pounding. Did it see him? And if it did see him, is it strong enough to break into the house on its own?

His hand hovers over the drapes as he hesitates. This time, keeping the drape carefully placed over the window, he pulls back a corner of it to take another look. The zombie is still in the driveway. It shuffles forward as before and does not seem to have noticed him.

The zombie is wearing overalls and a large, wicker hat. Perhaps he has made his way over from a nearby farm. Or perhaps he was formerly the owner of _this_ farm. _It_ , Jughead reminds himself. Not a _he_. Not anymore.

He drops the drapes back into place and then goes to search the rest of the house. If there is one zombie circling the house, there will be others. He rubs at his forehead. His fatigue is catching up to him. He just… he needs to _think._ Circle the house for weak spots—reinforce where he can. Keep those things out.

He drags one of the dining room chairs to the front door and slides it under the handle. He has no idea how effective it will be against a zombie—would a zombie even use the front door? But it feels like he is accomplishing _something_.

He finds a key rack mounted on the wall next to the front door. He combs through the keys until he finds a fob for the Honda minivan. He shoves it in his pocket and then searches the rest of the house. Next he heads upstairs. He finds batteries and charging cables in the first bedroom. He eagerly leaves his phone charging while he searches through the bathroom.

He works on autopilot, his tired eyes cataloguing antibiotics, bandages, over the counter painkillers. In the master bedroom, he gives in to the temptation to look out the window again. The zombie from earlier is still in the driveway. He is somewhat reassured that the zombie’s shuffling appears directionless. It seems to have no idea that two human beings are holed up inside the house in front of him.

Next, he surveys the view from the spare bedroom window. He spies another two shuffling figures in the fields. They are too far away for him to see how big they are or where they may be headed.

But the reality is these things surround them. They got lucky they made it in the house last night. If they let their guard down, if they make one mistake—those things will figure out where they are, and they will find their way inside.

He rubs at his forehead and shakes himself in an attempt to clear the cobwebs fogging up his brain. They need more than what they are doing. They need a plan.

When he returns to Betty, he finds her sitting up on the couch, wide awake. She has her knees pulled in tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around her lower legs.

She tilts her head up when she sees him. “Come here,” she says.

He approaches her cautiously. She stretches out her legs and then pats the empty space next to her. When he reaches her side, she grabs his hand and then tugs on him until he takes a seat. Then she hoists herself up and swings her legs over his until she is straddling him.

“Hey,” she whispers, fingers tangling in his hair before she pulls his mouth to hers for a long and deep kiss.

When she breaks the kiss, her gaze pierces him in a way that sends his heart pounding in his chest. Some of the cobwebs in his mind begin to clear.

“What are you…?” he begins.

Before he can finish his question, her lips press against his again. She rocks against him, and then _grinds_ , and— _oh._ He almost protests—he is exhausted, it has been forever since he slept, and is it right to do this _now_ —but his body responds to hers like it has a mind of its own. He rocks up against her, the friction between their bodies sending chills down his spine. She has always had that effect on him.

Her hands caress his shoulders, the tops of his arms, trail a path down his chest before she finds the zipper of his jeans. She plays with him along the outside of his pants while kissing him, her teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Her touch and teasing leave his chest heaving, and he whispers in her ear, “Betty, please. I need you.”

She rubs her nose against his and then stands up to help him out of his jeans and underwear. She slides her yoga pants off before she climbs on top of him and sinks down on him in a fluid motion.

He gasps as he enters her and she presses her lips to the bottom of his ear. “Shh,” she says. “ _Quietly_.”

He muffles his moans against her throat as she rides him—her movements efficient and practiced. It is not long before he is coming with a groan, pressing his face against her shoulder to muffle the noise. His body trembles lightly as he comes down from his high.

She kisses him languidly before she climbs off him. He watches with hooded eyes as she wriggles back into her underwear and yoga pants.

“What about you?” he says in a thick voice.

“Later,” she says. “Get some sleep. It’s my turn to look after you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he says. The smile she gives him in response feels like a weight lifting off his shoulders. _She’s okay_ , he thinks. Betty is going to be okay. And if Betty is okay, then he can be okay too.

He lies down on the couch, burying into the blanket. It is not long before his exhaustion and post-sex haze drag him into unconsciousness.

* * *

It is almost dark when he wakes up. He throws off the blanket and then swings his feet over the couch to go in search of Betty. He finds her in the kitchen. Her hair is freshly damp from a shower and she is cooking up eggs and toast at the stove.

She smiles when she sees him. The smile is tinged with sadness and fear, but it is still a smile.

“I figured we should start using the perishable food first,” she says. “Especially while we still have power.”

He nods. He has seen more than his fair share of post-apocalyptic movies to predict how this will go. First, the world spins into chaos and uncertainty. The death toll is high and immediate. The survivors fan out. After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, their first world comforts will start disappearing. The power will go out and no one will be left to turn it back on. The taps will start running dry. Scavengers will pick through the remains of grocery store and pharmacy shelves. Then survival will become about more than just outrunning the zombies—real survival will be about how to eat, how to protect what they have, how to find shelter.

What have they survived so far? Losing Archie and Veronica and their families and barely escaping with their lives? Soon that will feel like the easy part.

He meets Betty’s gaze and he can tell that the same dark thoughts have swirled through her mind over the last few hours.

He clears his throat. “Looks delicious,” he forces himself to say. And it _does_ look delicious. Soon warm eggs and toast will be a distant memory in this world. Time to enjoy it while they can.

They eat at the kitchen table as the day grows darker outside. At first, only the sounds of chewing fill the room but then Betty sets down her toast and leans backward in her chair.

“We need a plan,” she says. “Jug, I did an inventory of food. We have another five days, maybe a week if we ration what we have.”

He nods. “We can’t stay here forever. Did you see the zombies outside?”

“They have been coming and going the last few hours. They don’t seem to know we’re here. It’s like they’re just….”

“Existing,” Jughead says.

“Yeah,” Betty says. “But where can we go? Maybe this is as good as gets.” She pauses, and in a hoarse voice, adds, “Maybe this is all the time that we get now. It’s more than Archie or Veronica got. Maybe when the food runs out, we just….”

“What?” says Jughead sharply.

She shrugs. “Do nothing.”

“No,” he says gruffly. “Betty, starving to death is not a pleasant way to go out.”

“Better than ending up like one of those things.”

He has no response to that. “There has to be other survivors out there,” he tries.

“Of course there are. But you and I have seen those post-apocalyptic movies, Jug. Just because there are other survivors out there does not mean that we want to find them.”

He acknowledges her point with a tilt of his head. “We need to try,” he insists. “If not for ourselves then because our families might still be out there.”

He knows he is being manipulative—knows that the chances of their families still being alive or slim to none. But he will not accept any scenario that ends with Betty dying. That is not an option.

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears when she says, “Don’t you think I know that? All I’ve done the last few hours is try and come up with a plan. None of the options are good.”

“Here is what we know,” he says shakily. “If we stay here, we eventually run out of food. Out there—well, we might have a chance. There’s a minivan in the driveway. Who knows how much gas it has, but if we can get to it, we can at least give ourselves that chance.” He pauses. “Five more days. We give ourselves five days to come up with a plan. We eat the perishable food first, and then take the rest of the non-perishables and go.”

She bites her lip like she wants to argue, but only says, “And do what?”

“Then we… head to Centerville. See if we can find our family. We survive. We stay together.”

He knows his words are bleak, but he does not have anything better to offer her.

She gives in with a slump of her shoulders and a nod. “We stay together,” she echoes.

Darkness descends in the room as the last of the daylight from outside disappears. Neither of them dare to turn on a light switch. They eat the rest of their meal in silence.

Once he finishes, he takes Betty by the hand and leads her back to the couch in the sitting room. He undresses her slowly and then takes his time to kiss and touch her body. By the time he buries his face between her thighs, she is wet and dripping for him. He licks her centre slowly before his tongue circles her clit.

She makes soft, whining noises, her hips rising and grinding against his mouth. But he is determined to draw this out. He focuses on memorizing the taste of her on his lips, the way she arches her back and sighs his name when he circles her clit with his tongue. He brings her close to the edge again and again only to pull back before she comes. 

Finally, in a shaky voice, she says, “Please, Jug. Please let me come. _Please_.”

They both know he loves it when she begs him. He pulls back and she mewls, but he presses a finger to his lips to remind her to be quiet. She nods and sighs when his tongue circles her clit again. He inserts a finger inside of her, then pumps in another finger, while his tongue moves in circles over her clit.

With a soft “ _oh_ ” she crumbles into her orgasm around him, her walls shuddering against his fingers. He keeps licking and sucking as she comes down from her high, lapping at her until she stops shuddering.

She pulls him to her and kisses him desperately, fingers tugging at his hair, moaning as she tastes herself on his mouth. He grinds against her, the urge to be buried inside of her suddenly overwhelming. She helps him out of his clothes and he sinks into her with a muffled groan. The urge to go slow and savour the moment deserts him. He grabs her hands in his and then pins her hands down on the couch behind her. She encourages him with a responding thrust of her hips and a nibble of her teeth against his neck. He sets a rough pace and it is not long before he comes, burying his face against her shoulder to muffle his groan.

He releases her hands and then lies still. He is sensitive where he is still buried inside of her, but he is not ready to move, not yet. Betty’s arms come around him, her hands smoothing down his back. He presses his cheek against hers and closes his eyes as he listens to the reassuring sounds of her breath against his ear.

* * *

They fall into something of a routine over the next few days. They sleep in shifts and take turns making meals. After the first day, they limit themselves to two meals a day, but it is not long before the toast and eggs, milk, and orange juice are gone.

They stay quiet. They keep the lights off and the TV shuttered. They only speak in short, whispered bursts. They keep the curtains shut and the lights off.

They pass the time by having sex. Mostly they have sex on the couch in the sitting room— _their_ room as he has come to think of it. But they have also had sex in the kitchen, on the dining room table, on the stairs.

They have stayed away from the bedrooms. It feels like a line too far to have sex in someone else’s bedroom—even if that person is never coming back.

He does not think that they have been this active since the early days when they first lost their virginity to each other. Other than when they eat, it is one of the few things they can do where they still feel _alive_. He is obsessed with going down on her, on teasing her body to the edge again and again and _again_ before he finally lets her go over the other side. He tries to make her every orgasm last longer than the one before. He lulls himself to sleep thinking about her walls shuddering against his fingers and the taste of her on his tongue.

All the while, the hours bring them closer to the day they must leave. Their sessions become more frantic, more harried, as if they both know it might be a long time before they feel safe and comfortable enough to be intimate again.

With each passing day, there seems to be more zombies lurking outside. The one he saw on the first day, in the farmer’s hat and overalls (who he has come to think of Old MacDonald) never quite leaves the driveway in front of the house. He moves slowly, almost lethargically, up and down the driveway, sometimes to the cars, sometimes to the garage. His gait is pained, his long arms swing heavily at his sides. Jughead is not fooled though. He knows Old MacDonald would chase him down if given the opportunity to do so.

They turn their phones on once a day. Each time searching for a signal. Just in case.

On the fifth day, with their self-imposed deadline barreling down on them, Betty turns on her phone and it does something it has not done in almost a week.

It vibrates with an incoming message.

“It’s a text,” she breathes, pulling it to her face. “From Charles. He’s alive, Jug. Charles is alive.” Her eyes are wide and excited when she looks over at him. “He says there’s an FBI safe house.”

He momentarily forgets to stay quiet. “What about my dad?” he says loudly before dropping his voice. “JB? Your mom?”

She quickly texts back to Charles and stares at the phone intently while waiting for his message. She does not have to wait long. She reads the response aloud:

_“I’m sorry, Betty. I was not able to get to your house in time. I’ve been trying to reach Alice, but there’s no answer.”_

He takes that in with closed eyes. The answer is not unexpected or surprising—but the loss pierces through him all the same. In the absence of news, it was easier to hold onto hope, to think that maybe FP and Alice and Jellybean had found a way out, and were holing up somewhere just like they were.

“Maybe she doesn’t have service,” Betty says aloud. “Like we did, Jug. Maybe her phone is off or lost, it doesn’t have to mean…”

He forces himself to nod. “You’re right,” he says. He tries to inject cheer in his voice, but his voice is tight and flat.

“He’s texting us the address for the safe house,” Betty continues. “It’s not so far. Maybe a two hour drive. If the minivan has even half a tank of gas, we should make it. We can make it, Jug.”

She is more animated than he has seen her since this all began and he gratefully allows her to take the lead on developing a plan for their escape. He knows he was the one who insisted they had to leave—that they had to survive. But he cannot ignore the creeping feeling that leaving this house, their cocoon, is a mistake. Inside these walls, they have each other, and running water, and relative safety.

Out there….

But the food is running out and the water will not last forever and he meant what he said earlier, starvation is not the way to die, and Betty dying is not an option that is on the table.

And so he forces himself to focus and to plan.

They will leave the next morning at the break of dawn. The plan is relatively straightforward: gather as much food as they can, and then make a beeline for the minivan.

First, they comb through the house for weapons, something other than a gun. If they need to fight off a zombie or two, the plan is to do it as quickly as they can with as little noise as possible.

In the closet by the front door, they find a hammer and an axe. They add it to their weapon’s pile along with the rusty pipe Betty has been carrying since La Bonne Nuit.

The closet also contains a utility belt and backpacks. He stores the hammer and the gun in the utility belt. They take the backpacks and stuff them with the limited food remaining in the kitchen—half a box of soda crackers, some peanut butter, croutons, an unopened bag of raisins, three granola bars, four cans of soup, and a box of cookies. They fill up five bottles of portable water and stuff those in the backpacks along with their food.

Next, they raid the master bedroom for clothes and take a handful of the most practical items—t-shirts, pants, underwear. Betty discreetly slides sanitary products into her own backpack.

When the sun goes down, they retreat to their familiar couch in the sitting room. The sex is desperate and rushed and he comes quicker than he wants. When he does, he holds her tightly, whispering over and over into her neck that he loves her.

* * *

Dawn breaks bright and clear. They eat a small ration of food in silence, both of them drawn and tense. Then they sweep the house to count the zombies lurking outside.

They are relatively lucky.

Only Old MacDonald stands between them and the Honda minivan. There is another zombie in the distance, but this one is far enough away that they should be in the relative safety of the minivan before that zombie reaches them. On the other side of the house, they count three more zombies in the farm fields. Again, they should be far enough away that they will be long gone in the minivan before those zombies can find them.

After their sweep is complete, they shoulder their backpacks and head to the front door.

“Once the door is open, we run like hell,” Jughead whispers. He lifts the hammer. Betty grips the axe in one hand and the pipe from La Bonne Nuit in the other hand. “I’ll take out Old MacDonald. One blow to the head and then we head for the minivan. We don’t look back.”

Betty touches the back of his hand. “Jug, we’re going to make it.”

He forces conviction into his voice. “I know.”

Then he kisses her. He pours as much love and feeling into the kiss as he can. He does not want the kiss to feel like a goodbye, but more like a promise— _I love you, I’m here, I’ll never leave you, we’ll get through this together._

When he pulls away, he holds her gaze until she gives him a nod.

He moves the chair out from under the doorknob and unlocks the door. “One, two, three—go!”

He opens the door. Bright light floods into his eyes. The light is almost blinding after spending the last few days tucked up inside with all the curtains drawn. Still, he has no time to let his eyes adjust. He is running as soon as the door is open, Betty right behind him.

Old MacDonald’s head whips around as soon as the door flings open. He sniffs the air, emitting a low, animalistic growl, and then he is running— _sprinting_ in their direction, moving faster than Jughead has ever seen him move, faster than Jughead thought him capable of moving.

Jughead brings the hammer up over his head. One blow and Old MacDonald will be down and they will continue on to the minivan, just like they planned.

Jughead has the hammer ready to swing when Betty screams behind him. He whips around. She is down on the ground, a zombie in a torn yellow sundress hovering over her, its teeth snapping at her shoulder and face.

He stares at the yellow dress in horror. How did they miss this zombie? He has not seen that zombie on any of his rounds. There must be a blind spot around the corner of the house where she had been hidden. She could have been there for days. They would have summoned her as soon as they burst from the house.

He jumps forward to help Betty, but before he can, Old MacDonald crashes into him from behind. Jughead goes down, instinctively tucking his head under his arms. The zombie’s teeth whistle by his ears and snap at his sleeves.

As soon as he hits the ground, Jughead turns around, swinging the hammer wildly. The hammer crunches against Old MacDonald’s teeth and jaw and he emits a howl of annoyance but does not slow down. He swings at Old MacDonald’s head again, the hammer connecting with the zombie’s mouth and nose but not stopping him. Old MacDonald’s jaws snap at him, pressing his way forward, headed for Jughead’s throat.

He holds Old MacDonald back with the hammer as he reaches frantically for the gun sheathed in his utility belt. Somewhere behind him, Betty chokes out a groan and panic claws through him. Has she been bitten? If she has been bitten then it is all over. He knows he will never be able to kill her or leave her.

But then he hears a thump and an inhuman groan of defeat, followed by Betty’s voice, “Jug!”

Old MacDonald turns at the noise and Jughead’s fingers finally close around the gun. He grasps it out of the utility belt, presses it to the zombie’s head and pulls the trigger. Old MacDonald’s head explodes in a cloud of blood and matted brain.

Betty shrieks, but then she is standing over him, she is reaching for him and pulling him to his feet. He glances behind her. The zombie she had been grappling with lies still on the ground, the axe lodged into her forehead. Beyond her, in the fields, there are at least five, no, six, no, _eight_ zombies that are tearing towards them.

“GO, GO, GO!” he yells

He grabs her hand and they make a beeline for the minivan. He ignores the urge to look behind him again. He knows that the zombies behind them are pressing down on them quickly. He cannot stop or slow for anything.

Betty presses the unlock button on the key fob as they approach the minivan. They reach the passenger door first and she yanks it open, diving into the car, across the gear shift and into the driver’s side. Jughead jumps in after her, pulling the door shut. He throws his backpack and the bloodied hammer in the backseat and hurriedly buckles himself in.

No sooner has the door slammed behind him that the first of the zombies catch up to them. It presses up against the passenger side door, mouth sliding against the glass open and shut while its yellow eyes lock onto Jughead.

Betty quickly twists the keys in the ignition and starts up the car. She puts the gear shift into reverse, and then pounds her foot down on the accelerator. The minivan shudders and its tires squeal as it backs up. She swings the car around and slams the gear shift into “drive.”

Jughead glances out the rear windshield. His stomach turns. All he can see is a horde of zombies appearing around the house and running towards then.

The ride down the dirt driveway is bumpy and the minivan rocks and weaves as Betty pushes it along as fast as she can without losing control. As soon as they make it to the main road, Betty floors the accelerator. They speed off. He watches behind him as the horde of zombies become fainter and smaller in the distance.

He only turns back around once the zombies disappear from view behind them. His face is shining with sweat and his heart pounds wildly.

Betty grips the steering wheel tightly in her hands and leans forward as she navigates the abandoned road before them. Her voice is a little too loud when she says, “We have almost a full tank of gas, Jug. We’re going to make it.”

He opens his mouth to respond when he realizes.

His right wrist is bleeding.

He pulls his arm up to get a better look. He must have injured it when Old MacDonald took him down. He dragged it across the road or it got stuck on a rock or on gravel or _something._ But as he stares at the wound on his wrist, his stomach drops. In the bright sun of day, there is no mistaking the puncture marks in his skin.

The adrenaline and pounding of his heart must have kept him from feeling the pain. But there is no mistaking it now. He has been bitten. And as soon as he thinks it, he _feels_ it. The puncture marks alight in pain, and a tickle builds in the back of his throat.

“Betty,” he whispers.

His voice does not sound like his own. And yet, he feels oddly calm. It is all so simple now. His focus has narrowed to a single goal: protect Betty. Even if it means protecting her from himself.

“What is it?” she says. Her voice is still too high, her fingers still gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

He feels a pang of guilt for what he is about to tell her, but there is no other choice. At least they found Charles. At least she will have somewhere to go. She’ll have a chance to live.

“I’ve been bit.”

The silence that greets his words is almost explosive. She does not respond right away. Her eyes stay focused on the road, her jaw working up and down.

Finally, in a tight voice, she says, “How?”

“It must have been during my tussle with Old MacDonald. I thought I avoided his teeth, but I was wrong.”

Again, her eyes do not leave the road. “No,” she says. There is an air of finality in her voice. “I don’t accept that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

And he is. He really is. He promised that he would stay with her. And now here he is, breaking that promise.

“You have to pull over,” he says. He keeps his voice steady. Again, he feels strangely calm. All they have lived with since this began was fear and uncertainty. But now the path in front of him is clear: she needs to pull over, and he needs to get as far away from her as he can before he changes. That’s it. Simple.

“I won’t,” she says. Her voice is loud, but determined. “I won’t do it. I won’t, Jug.”

“You have to,” he continues. “You know there is nothing that can be done for me. Keep the gun.”

“Stop it,” she hisses. “Jug, _stop_.”

The pain in her voice breaks his heart. But the pain in his wrist and hand feels like a cancer spreading up through his arm and beginning to infect the rest of his body. The itch in his throat is steadier, and his heartbeat suddenly feels louder, more rapid, like his senses are beginning to change.

“Betty,” he says softly. “Please. Just pull over.”

Her lips purse and for a second, he is terrified she might ignore him and keep driving, but then the minivan begins to slow. She navigates them to the shoulder of the highway and then brings the van to a stop.

For a moment, neither of them move. His mouth feels dry, and the tingling in his arm has now reached his shoulder. It is spreading. It is spreading so quickly.

“Betty, I…” he begins.

“Shut up,” she hisses. She takes her hands off the steering wheel and then rubs at her eyes. “I know you’re sorry, Jughead. I heard you the first time.” Her voice is broken when she says, “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” he says. Then, in a whisper, he adds, “But you have to. There’s no other choice. You have to live, Betty. For me. For Archie. For Veronica.”

He hopes his words get through to her, but her gaze is blank and distant. Then she unbuckles her belt, and says. “You should take the hammer with you.”

She climbs out of the car. He watches her with wide eyes. Why is she getting out of the car? What is she _doing_?

She opens the backdoor and grabs the hammer off the seat. He feels some of his calm slip away as she circles the minivan and then opens the passenger side door. He fights for his control back as she stands over him, holding onto the bloodied part of the hammer in one hand.

He is determined to hold onto his sanity— _himself_ —until he sees her driving away from him. Until she is safe. He will not allow himself to slip away until then. He will not.

He undoes his seatbelt and struggles to push himself to his feet. His limbs feel heavy and coordinated.

“Take the hammer,” she repeats.

He wants to protest. She needs all of the weapons now but the look on her face brooks no room for argument. He moves to take the hammer—if only to satisfy her, but before his hands close around the handle, she raises her arm and brings the handle down across his temple. He hears a _whacking_ noise before pain explodes along his temple and to the back of his head.

He barely has the presence of mind to realize that she hit him— _she hit him with the handle of the hammer_ —before his vision goes black and he sinks into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he comes to, he is still in the minivan and they are tearing down the road at a high speed.

He has no idea how long it has been since their roadside confrontation. It could have been minutes or hours. But he can still think—he still feels like himself. So the disease has not progressed far enough to turn him into one of those things. Not yet anyway.

“Betty?” he slurs.

“I’m sorry, Jughead,” comes her reply. He turns his head where she is driving down the road and determinately not looking at him. “But I won’t leave you. I texted Charles. He thinks he might be able to help.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to get his bearings. His head pounds in pain where she whacked him with the hammer, but it does not hurt as much as he would expect. That cannot be a good sign. He feels like he is floating. He does not have long now. He struggles, and realizes that his arms and legs are bound to the passenger seat.

“What did you do?” he says.

“I found rope in the trunk,” she says. “I tied you up. Don’t worry, Jug. You’re not going anywhere. And you won’t be hurting anyone.”

He strains against the rope. “Don’t do this,” he pleads. “Betty, please. Please let me go.”

“You might be okay with leaving me,” she says. “But I don’t accept that. I will find a way to undo what’s happening to you, Jug. I promise. No matter how long it takes. I will bring you back.”

“You can’t,” he says brokenly.

“I will,” she says.

The pain in his head is almost completely gone. The bite on his wrist no longer hurts. His vision darkens and blurs. He’s slipping away and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He needs to warn her. He needs to let her know that he is changing and there is nothing that he can do to stop it. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is her name: “ _Betty_.”

“I love you, Jughead,” she says in response. “Remember that. Hold onto that.”

It is the last thing he hears her say.

* * *

It is dark and all he knows is hunger. The hunger burns through him, _consumes_ him. He can smell flesh and hear the pumping of a heart circulating blood through a human body. The smell and the sound stirs up a _want_.

Bright lights flicker on overhead. The lights burn his eyes and he ducks his head and hisses, but then he smells it. Human flesh. Close by. He throws his body forward, his mouth open, his jaws and teeth and mouth aching to be filled, to satisfy the burning, the _hunger_ that burns inside of him.

Chains snap and yank him back. He howls and tries again, throwing himself forward, his teeth snapping. The scent of flesh and blood and a pumping heart is overpowering. He snaps his teeth and strains forward, pushing, dragging, pushing, dragging, but the chains hold.

Two figures stare at him. They are so close. Close enough that he can hear their hearts beating. He can smell their flesh. He can almost _taste_ them.

Then he hears it. Their mouths are moving and sound is coming out. At first, he dismisses it as _noise_ , as nothing, but then the noise becomes something else—becomes… _words_.

“How much did you administer?”

“The same amount as yesterday.”

“We should be seeing changes by now.”

“Don’t you think I know that? We’ve given him this stuff every day for a week, Charles. And he’s still… he’s like this.”

Their voices, their smells, there is something… familiar about them. He cocks his head, sniffs the air, breathes them in.

“Did you see—”

“I did, I did—oh my god, Charles—do you think he can… I think he can hear us.”

The figure takes a step closer to him. The scent is almost overpowering. And he does know it—know _her_. He feels like he is reaching for something—something just out of reach—

“Jughead,” she says. Her voice is loud and desperate. He feels it echoing around inside of him. “Jughead, can you hear me? It’s me, Jug. I’m working on a way to bring you back. Just like I promised you that I would. Can you hear me?”

She is so close—close enough that if he strains against the chains, he might just be able to reach her. He throws himself forward, teeth snapping, and she hurriedly scrambles backwards until she is next to the other figure. He pushes forward intently, ignorant to the metal chains digging into his wrists and ankles and holding him back. He feels no pain. All he wants is to feed.

“Charles, he heard me,” says the figure. “He was listening to us. I know he was. For a moment there, I thought…”

“This virus is pernicious. It is not going to go down quietly or without fighting back.”

“I’m not giving up on him. Not yet.”

“I know that. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“Too late,” says the woman. And then, “See? He’s listening to us again.”

The man’s pulse speeds up. “My god, you’re right. He is listening to us. If he can understand speech…”

“The virus can be beaten,” says the woman. “We need to dose him again.” Then louder, and more urgently, she says, “Jug, if you can hear me, if you’re in there, know that I’m fighting for you. I’ll never stop fighting for you. And I’m coming to get you.” 

The hunger roars inside of him, but he feels something else, too. Recognition. He knows her. He would never forget her.

Betty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....and Jughead was cured and they lived happily ever after (or whatever passes for that in a Zombie apocalypse!). Thanks to all of you who stuck with me to the end of this. It was so much fun to write - and I promise to write something less depressing next time. :) As always, I live for your comments so please let me know if you enjoyed it!


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